


Frayed

by TangentiaLives



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: But it can be read as without, Canon Divergence, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, Post Season 5, hint of Merlin/Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 16:10:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1311022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TangentiaLives/pseuds/TangentiaLives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was over, though. All of it was over. He had had a destiny, and he had failed in it. Albion had fallen. Arthur had fallen. But Merlin had not. “Stop being dead, Arthur.” The plea, torn out of him involuntarily, dropped heavy into the still evening air. </p>
<p>There was no answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frayed

Merlin wandered. After leaving Avalon, he traveled towards Mercia and then headed back to Ealdor. Hunith took one look at his gaunt body and dead eyes before shuffling him inside her hut, hugging him close to her and ordering him to rest. He hadn’t known where else to go, _had_ nowhere else to go. He couldn’t bear to return to Camelot—not even for Gwen, who ruled now as queen. The memories were too painful and raw, even as the seasons changed in their endless cycle and he grew hard from labor in the field. Arthur would have been impressed with his newfound physique if he had been here to see it.

His magic lay untouched and dormant. Merlin simply couldn’t bring himself to use it. Every time the passing thought entered his mind, he quashed it as firmly as he could. If it hadn’t been enough to save the person he loved most in the world, it certainly wouldn’t be enough to do whatever it was he wanted it to do. His naïve belief in his magic was a relic of times past.

At night Merlin dreamed. Most often it was of Arthur’s minute recoil and the rasp of his voice when he said, “leave me”, of the wounded and somewhat frightened look in his eyes after Merlin had revealed his magic to him. How he looked at Merlin as if he were a stranger or a dangerous enemy.

He dreamed of fire and burning alive, of Arthur standing at the ramparts and impassively watching it happen. He dreamed of his friends’ death, of Lancelot and Gwaine and Elyan. He dreamed of lakes and swords and Arthur’s body, lying so very still on the boat he had sent off into the veil of mist separating the Sidhe and human world.

It was over, though. All of it was over. He had had a destiny, and he had failed in it. Albion had fallen. Arthur had fallen. But Merlin had not. “Stop being dead, Arthur.” The plea, torn out of him involuntarily, dropped heavy into the still evening air.

There was no answer.

Merlin despaired. Why should he live when everyone else had perished? He asked himself after Hunith died and he was still young and vibrant, stuck in a hellish stasis of youth. There was nothing for him anywhere anymore, not in Ealdor or Camelot.

He left his mother’s town shortly after she passed, quietly sneaking away in the deep night with only a small sack of belongings to his name.

The hallucinations started shortly thereafter.

Arthur stood in front of him, legs braced apart, a hand on the pommel of the sword sheathed at his hip. “Merlin, you dimwit, what are you doing? Get over here.”

“Arthur?” Merlin croaked, lunging forwards to grasp at him, only to find himself alone in a patch of dappled sunlight bleeding through the canopy of a forest he hadn’t been in only moments before.

After finding a small town, he discovered he was leagues away from where he had last been—far enough away from Ealdor to be met with only vague comprehension when the name was mentioned.

“Wake up, Merlin. Servants don’t sleep in.” A boot nudged him in his side as he startled awake, seeing a flash of golden hair when his eyes flew open.

“Arthur?” His voice cracked embarrassingly (Arthur would have mocked him endlessly for it) in the dewy morning air.

There was no response, and he found himself in a ditch on the side of a small, poorly kept dirt road.

It continued in this manner for weeks. A couple days would pass, and Arthur’s specter would appear before him, disappearing only to leave Merlin in a different place from where he had begun. Merlin didn’t know how it worked, was worried he had at last cracked. It didn’t help that each change in location put him closer and closer to the lake. It was like an ill-humored prank.          

Until it wasn’t any longer.

“Merlin.” Arthur stood there in his russet brown breeches and red linen shirt, the neck slightly gaping open as always. “ _Merlin_.” It was a command.

“What, Arthur?” He was tired, so very tired, and it wasn’t real. Arthur wasn’t really standing in front of him, vibrant and handsome and _alive_. “What do you _want_ from me? I’ve given you everything I am.”

“It’s time to come back, _Mer_ lin.” He turned and walked through the trees, stride as long and purposeful as always, but stopped, looking over his shoulder. That familiar half-grin, half-smirk of his graced his face. “Are you coming or not?”

His heart twisted in his chest. It wasn’t possible, but he seemed so real this time, more substantial and present. They were even holding an actual conversation.

“Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

Bollocks, he really had lost it, but once Arthur’s servant, always Arthur’s servant, and a servant always followed his master’s orders. He scrambled forwards, almost tripping over a root, and Arthur’s fond laughter floated back to him on the soft air.

He came to the lake. Of course it was the damned lake. Where else would Arthur have led him to, if not the place where he had said goodbye? It was quiet, birds breaking the stillness with occasional chirping. Water lapped at the worn edges of the lake, wind rippling the surface. It would have been peaceful, restful even, if it weren’t for the boat coming back through the mist. The Sidhe had returned him. ( _Why?_ a small part of him asked, but he didn’t care. Arthur was in front of him.)

Heedless of the ruin it would bring to his boots and clothes, he waded out to meet the craft and drank in Arthur’s peaceful face like he would never see it again. His power stirred at the sight of his king, uncoiling and stretching to his fingers. It wanted to be used, needed to be used. His hands felt hot, like he had held them over a fire for a prolonged period of time, and he licked his lips, uncertain. The pause caused his magic to batter at him, demanding he go to Arthur.

Unsteadily, Merlin neared him, hands now glowing. Cupping the angled jawline of Arthur’s face, he leaned over, kissed his brow, and let the power flow out from him in a great, gushing wave of amber gold. There was a connection between the two of them unlike anything he had ever experienced before—he saw images of years past from Arthur’s view: Uther’s face, younger and unlined; Morgana and Gwen laughing; his own face, smiling and glowing and _handsome_. It was over too quickly, the connection snapping almost audibly.

Drained, he staggered and fell to his knees. Arthur remained unmoving, not even a hint of life, a bloom of color on his cheeks or a shallow breath, inhabiting his body. Merlin’s head bowed low in defeat against Arthur’s side, a darker despair than ever before enveloping him. “I asked you to stop being dead,” he whispered, recalling that night so long ago when he had cried out to the empty night. A lone, ignored tear trickled down his cheek.

A hand on his head, a voice rusty with disuse answered him. “I heard you.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off of Wherethedreamgoes's beautiful edit on Tumblr. 
> 
> It can be found here: http://wherethedreamgoes.tumblr.com/post/74294563008
> 
> Also, this is my first brief foray into Merlin fic. Hopefully it's decent enough not to cry over. If you'd ever like to talk, I'm on tumblr at onthehowl.tumblr.com.


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